


Different Feathers

by Leraika



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Angst, Elemental Imagery and Symbolism, Everyone Is Alive, F/M, Love Triangles, My First AO3 Post, Nod to Traditional Narrative, Platonic Relationships, Tags Contain Spoilers, Women Being Awesome, Women In Power
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-13 00:58:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10503123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leraika/pseuds/Leraika
Summary: The sea is in her blood. She is girl and woman. Warrior and lady of state. Dignity and wildness. She cannot be known by any man.Guinevere POV fic.Pre-film, during film, post-film.Canonical up to a point and then it goes beyond the film's brief.(Everyone lives, because up with that nonsense I will not put.)





	

Dedicated to my friend A in particular, and to strong women everywhere.

* * *

> _So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows. (_ Romeo and Juliet 1.5.50)

The walled fortress town of Cameliard stood sprawling but proud by the sea. It had been a place of warriors and old magic since the beginning of time. She had walked the shores and ridden along the high cliffs as soon as she was big enough to escape the nursery. Her elder sister had been more mother than sibling, despite being only seven years older.

_"Look! Look…! Oh, sister, look!"_

_"What now, little one?"_

_"Look at the shell I found with nurse! Isn't it beautiful?"_

_"Oh it is, how fine. Did you find the other half?"_

_"Yes, but it was broken."_

_"Well never mind. Be sure to put it in a safe place."_

* * *

 

She was a high lady and the adored baby, the fiery little beauty to her sister's ethereal elegance. She would pick up her skirts to an indecent height around her knees as she dashed to the stables, eager to escape her lessons and needlework.

_"Milady!"_

_"Madam!"_

_Go away. I'm hiding._

_"Miss! Oh little miss!"_

_No. Shan't._

_And then her sister appeared, wearing a dress of the palest green, her long gold hair swinging free about her as she stepped delicately across the wet grass. Her sister drew up, with unerring accuracy, to the oak tree in which she was hiding. A pale hand reached out and rested lightly on the trunk._

_"Dearest, please come down," she said with her usual serene calm._

_"Go away!" she hissed._

_"I shan't let you be beaten, child. Just come down and we may talk."_

_"No!" she said in throbbing accents. "You don't understand, no one does!"_

_"I would like to try, if you would only come down and speak with me." Her sister's beautiful bright blue eyes were fixed on her. "I would like that of all things."_

_Why did her voice have to be so soft? Why did she have to be so gentle?_

_She knew if she kept resisting then it would only make her sister sad. And that was the worst thing of all. With a groan she swung herself down and landed by her sister in a swirl of brown woollen skirts and a muffled thump._

_Her sister beamed down at her, like a miniature sun. "Shall we walk along the shore, my little bird?" She put out her hand. "You can tell me all about it."_

* * *

She had no patience for her long, long hair—so dark it was almost black. She remembers being beaten and sent to bed with no supper when she had cut the last foot off, reducing the tumbling curls to a ragged-edged mane that fell only to her waist.

_"Really, child," her mother said crossly as her sister trimmed and evened out the mess she had made of her hair. "This will take years to remedy."_

_"I don't care. It's heavy and stupid."_

_"It is beautiful and you should be proud of it," her mother said. "Gods girl, you have no idea."_

_No, she really didn't._

* * *

 

Most of all, she remembers watching and listening to her mother and aunts and cousins as they listened to their husbands mutter and grumble to themselves as the womenfolk embroidered fine cloths or meditatively brushed out their shining hair that pooled in their laps. The way the women would listen in all sympathy to the trials of what it was to be a strong man in a world made for them by their forefathers. The way they were so calm and supportive.

She could never imagine having that kind of patience. The one time she had tried it with a young warrior, she had lost all patience and eventually tried to box his ears when he had said that women did not know anything beyond dancing, singing and child-rearing.

When her sister got wind of this incident, and their father's chagrined displeasure, she had laughed and said that if Guinevere did not mend her ways, she would never be married.

_"I don't want to marry! I'm going to be clan leader after father!"_

_"Och mo ghraidh," her sister had sighed. "This is not something you can decide for yourself."_

She had not understood at the time, and so had sulked while letting her sister brush her hair out and then braid it for the night.

* * *

As she grew taller, she still wore dresses less often than trousers, binding her hair back in a functional bundle at the nape of her neck and swaggering through the halls in a manner that seemed calculated to infuriate her parents and scandalise the servants. She would go hunting with the men and carried herself like the proud Celt she was. She often found her sister's retiring ways and soft words tiresome.

Until one terrible day, when 'daddy' became 'Leodegrance'.

_Click-clack-click-clack._

_"… Wh-what?"_

_Click-clack-click-clack._

_"Your ears work perfectly, my dearest," her sister replied calmly, not looking up from her loom._

_Click-clack-click-clack._

_Click-clack-click-clack._

_"But…" she was at a loss for how to account for this betrayal._

_"It is perfectly normal," her sister said, pausing in her work to untwist a threat that threatened to become knotted. As her long fingers deftly worked, she hummed softly under her breath._

_"He's selling you! Like a cow!"_

_That made her sister pause. "No, he's not," she said softly, finally turning to look at her._

_"But he is," she insisted. "You've only met this Caradoc twice before! And he's ten years older than you!"_

_"Seven. Your point?"_

_How could she be so calm?!_

_"He lives so far away! I'll never see you again!"_

_Now her sister laughed. "Of course we shall see each other again. And at that time you can introduce me to your tall handsome husband." And those blue eyes gleamed teasingly._

_"No! I shall never marry! Please—please stay here, stay with me!" Her panic was like a wave, building and building, the crest sharpening as it began to curve before the child-wrought sand walls of her control._

_"I have accepted the proposal. I think Caradoc will be a fine husband—he is a good man, and we have spoken together privately about this matter. I do believe I shall be happy."_

_"But you don't love him!" she exploded, getting to the heart of the matter._

_"Oh, but I think I shall. We are already tolerably fond of each other."_

_"I repeat: you've only met him twice before!"_

_"Yes, but I have a feeling."_

_"A feeling," she scoffed._

_"Yes," her sister said. "You'll know what I mean, one day," she added and resumed her loom._

_Click-clack-click-clack._

_Click-clack-click-clack._

_Click-clack-click-clack._

* * *

Her sister left for Caradoc's land with a full company of warriors and maidens in her entourage. Leodegrance also went with their mother.

The dowry was princely, as was fitting. Thirty cattle, including an astonishing bull the colour of sea foam with red speckled ears and pale horns like two crescent moons. And her sister's golden hair and pale face were hidden under a veil, she wore a beautiful green dress. They had hugged each other tightly for a very long time, but no tears were shed. They said nothing. She was too proud, and her sister felt no reason for sadness.

Then her sister had mounted a white palfrey and ridden away, while she watched from the gates of a suddenly hollow Cameliard. The wind picked up the prayers whispered under her breath and carried them with her sister to another land and another life that would forever sunder them.

* * *

She became more reckless after her sister left. She went south and joined Merlin's band of warriors. Her body became strong. She was fatal with a bow. She could move silently, like a wolf through the forests, she would run with the bands of warriors and hunt for Romans and game alike. A fire was lit in her heart, the sparks of passion kindled to a conflagration as she saw her true calling.

Her mother would weep with relief when she returned north from these journeys. Leodegrance was enraged and would lock her in her rooms.

* * *

_"Like an animal!" her mother despaired. "Running around in the woods like a brazen she-wolf!"_

_"You are a princess! You are a daughter of chieftains!" Leodegrance thundered._

_She stayed silent as she stripped off her muddied cloak, her chin raised in defiance. These people were weak and frightened, hiding in their keep by the sea and waiting for death, since they would never take their freedom._

_These people were not of this land._

_How could they be, if they did not fight for it?_

* * *

First, she went cold, like ice over dangerous waters. The wintry sea in her blood would rage, but its stormy waves would break against her bones and her resolve.

She could wait. It wouldn't be long now. Merlin and his growing forces had seen the waning power of Rome in their land.

The moon shifted. Seasons changed. Tides turned and turned again. Sand was pulled along the shore slowly, inexorably.

Yet still the half-Britain cavalry leader, son of the blazing Pendragon, led his ever shrinking band of barbarian knights out into battle. Outnumbered, surrounded, and yet like a whale bursting from the slate-grey waves, they would break free.

Some things were harder to move. Like driftwood clinging to the land, afraid of its sea journey. Leodegrance was such a piece of gnarled oak.

She would be a good daughter. She learned to weave on a loom of her own, she learned the songs of her ancestors and the steps of their dances. She learned to dress her hair and let her hands soften. Her mother was pleased.

She remembered her sister's gentle ways, like the sea in summer. Gentle and subtle. And yet the currents were just as strong, the power just as deep for all it was hidden by a calm surface.

* * *

_"War, father?" she said at dinner one night._

_"Merlin and the other chieftains are living in war bands along the length of the Roman Wall, constantly raiding."_

_"I see," she daintily put another morsel of food in her mouth and chewed slowly._

_"You do not wish to join them?" Leodegrance pressed as her mother watched and listened in anxious silence._

_She smiled winsomely, eyes downcast. "Once, yes, but no more. I am grown mature and see how bold and rash such action is."_

_"Yet you sympathise with them?" her mother ventured._

_"Of course," she replied, lifting her intense gaze to her father's face. "But I see now that there are other ways to fight."_

_Leodegrance was silent for a long time, staring into her unfathomable dark eyes. Then he cleared his throat and looked away, speaking of other matters closer to home. Her mother sighed sharply and welcomed the new topic of conversation._

_And her smile remained steady. She had felt the shift of power._

Tides turned and turned again.

* * *

 

She spoke softly of reconciliation and peace. She spoke of alliances and trade details.

Twisted and rough barked, freshly uprooted from the land. Leodegrance's driftwood heart was smoothed by the unstoppable summer waves of her beauty and talent. Her grace and gentleness, the gentle rhythm of her loom quieting his suspicions.

She learned the subtle woman's way and waited.

* * *

It was perfectly acceptable to go hunting with her father. Of course, she would not wield spear or bow, but she was ride in attendance and congratulate the men on their valour and skill.

That day, though, she walked some distance from the hunting party, who had paused to rest a while after bringing down a handsome ten-tined stag. They were on the southern edge of their lands, close to a Roman family who had somehow clung to their lands north of the Wall. All Celts stayed clear of them. Everyone knew they kept to themselves, and the land they owned was poor.

She had announced her intent and Leodegrance cheerfully waved her off, telling her to take an attendant. A youth of barely sixteen summers trailed her at a distance, too shy of her beauty and dignified carriage to attempt conversation with her.

The forest was hushed from the hunt, only the birds wailed at the loss.

She walked lightly and thrilled with the idea of giving her 'guard' the slip. She could, oh, she could all too easily.

Well, why not? She had been so very… placid of late.

So it was a surprise when they were suddenly set upon by Roman soldiers. The poor boy was immediately slain defending her.

Her screams went unheard. She was taken back to the Romans' estate.

* * *

_"So… you are a Woad?" the fat Roman man said, his eyes raking over her rough woollen riding dress. Hardly a flattering garment, but functional and warm._

_She said nothing, keeping her chin high and staring hard at the wall behind his head. What was this language? What was he saying?_

_"A… pagan?" he hissed._

_Silence. Keep calm._

_Leodegrance would come. He would demand her return._

_"Who are you?"_

_Let me go. You cannot tame the sea, Roman._

* * *

She was shut away in a stone-cut prison of wet stone, iron bars and darkness. Her jailers were priests of the hanging god, who inadvertently taught her their language. All hard and unmusical syllables, like falling rocks.

They told her to pray. She refused.

They raged at her. They hurt her.

She stayed silent until she could no longer hold back her screams.

Still, Leodegrance did not come for her.

It occurred to her that there might have been a reason why neither he, nor her mother ever spoke of husbands.

There were others in the dark, equally misused. They spoke, cried, screamed and gibbered in the shadows, like the spirits of the dead. Some went mad. Some just died. Others lingered, withering slowly in their own filth.

And she sank into the salt waves, deeper and deeper as the dark waters moved above.

Below.

_Through._

Her hate left her, engulfed by the currents. All that was left was the sea.

She only surfaced to voice her pain, breaching through the waves—a wild creature bereft of all human things. She would try to remember who she was. She had a name.

It meant 'white smoothness'.

She let it fall from her dry and cracked lips. It sounded like a sob.

She tasted salt and rust, she let the cold sea engulf her again.

* * *

_Thud-thud-thud-thud._

_"… Exaudi orationem meam…"_

_Thud-thud-thud-thud._

_"… Exaudi orationem meam. In nomine Dei Patris omnipotentis et in virtute Spiritus Sancti…"_

_The waves didn't want to let her go. The cold was so soothing. The fire in her hand barely a dull throb._

_Thud-thud-thud-thud._

_Clang!_

_She opened her eyes and realised she was still propped up against the wall of her tomb._

_The thrumming was the sea in her veins. It was coming from somewhere out there._

_"Who are these defilers of the Lord's temple?" One of the priests said. He sounded as much shocked as angry._

_"Out of the way," a new voice. She hadn't heard its like before._

_Heavy boots, not shuffling sandals._

_Light, brighter than the tiny lamps had ever produced, came closer. She turned her head, barely able to hold it up. Her chin rested on her too-sharp, too-thin shoulder._

_"The work of your god. Is this how he answers your prayers?" Another voice challenged._

_A pause. "See if there's any still alive." A different voice that trembled with suppressed emotion._

_Cages' blood-rusted hinges wailed as they were thrown open. Then the coughing and swearing of men._

_"How dare you set foot in this holy place!" Another priest shouted._

_Steel was drawn. Grunt._

_A wet, slick crunching sound._

_A gasp, a sigh._

_"There was a man of God!"_

_"Not my god!"_

_"This one's dead," said another._

_"By this smell, they are all dead," a fourth coughed. "And you. You even move, you join him." He must have been talking to the priest._

_Was this truly a rescue? From another Roman?_

_"Arthur!" another voice, deeper than the rest, and full of worry._

_That name… why was that name important?_

_"You must not fear me." Gentler now, the deepest-voiced of the men said. It was still stern, but not at all violent._

_Suddenly the light was right before her—blazing, writhing yellow that made her blink. The sea surfaced in her night-gentled eyes and rolled down her hollow cheeks._

_A man in Roman armour held the torch in one hand, and a long Roman cavalry sword in the other. He was clearly tall, with dark curling hair falling over a high forehead. Pale eyes shining with compassion and horror._

_She opened her mouth and tried to speak, but only managed a sigh. The sea pulled at her, telling her to come back to its peace. The only peace truly left to her._

_Another man joined his comrade, his eyes as dark as hers. Black curls falling over a high brow. A beautiful face made pale with anger and, now, surprise. He held a bloodied short sword, and she knew that this was the one who had slain her jailer. He took the torch and stepped back as the first man swung his sword at the grate that kept her caged. It fell to the ground with a sound that rocked through her._

_Then the pale-eyed man put his sword away and reached in. His warm rough hands, gentle for all their strength, pulled her out and up into his strong arms. She wound her arms around his neck, ashamed of how thin they were. Ashamed of the stinking rags she had been enshrouded in for gods only knew how long._

_She was carried up, and out… into the cold and the light._

_"Water! Give me some water!" her rescuer shouted._

_She was laid on the ground, and when water was trickled past her lips she choked explosively, curling around old bruises and her humiliation. A woman—a Roman matron, again, vaguely familiar—crouched by her head. He coaxed her to drink again, and this time she managed to keep a sip of water down. It felt glorious. Then she looked at her saviour properly for the first time._

_His eyes were the colour of the sea._

_Waves crashed against her bones that sat like spurs of rock just under the sea, too near the surface. Exposed. Cold._

_"I'm a Roman officer. You're safe now. You're safe."_

_She wasn't, but she would be._

_In something like wonder, the name 'Arthur' finally registered meaning in her mind. She reached up and laid her hand on his arm._

_Making contact with a legend._

_Her people's killer._

_Her saviour._

* * *

Arthur took everyone with him. The oppressed villagers, the mad Roman lord and his family.

Even the livestock.

She was put in a wagon with the little boy with the broken arm and nursed, yet Arthur still came to visit her.

He reached for her injured hand and she shied away, but he was silent, calm and insistent. Curious, she let him take her hand. This was the man who murdered his own kin. She wanted to see what a Roman officer with Briton blood did to a princess of the sea.

His voice was as gentle as his hands as he spoke to her. Then he set her fingers, but brutally. Clearly no deft medical touch, was he. It had worked, though. And his eyes were remorseful as she cried out, falling against his chest. She was still so damnably weak, and did not disdain his comforting arm around her back.

When he tried to move away, she stopped him. She tried to tell him through the haze of her fever what had happened to them, to all of the people locked in that dark tomb.

She told him her name. She hoped he would take her to the sea.

She named him as a man, and one who killed his kith.

He said nothing.

* * *

_Her fever had broken and strength was returning to her body. The sea in her veins made her a creature of more than flesh and bone. She had transcended to another state of being._

_Despite the cold, she insisted on sitting at the front of the wagon, wrapped in a fur. Then Arthur appeared to ride beside her. "My father told me great tales of you," she said, watching him and judging it best not to mention her father's name._

_"Really? And what did you hear?" he did not sound particularly concerned or interested._

_"Fairy tales," she said lightly, hiding her contempt for both her father and the outlandish reports from Merlin's forces. She had spoken with Merlin herself. She knew differently. "The kind you hear about people so brave, so selfless, that they can't be real. Arthur and his knights," she said that last phrase with a sinking contempt that she could not keep from her voice anymore. The sea was rising in her._

_She wanted to push back, to challenge this great warrior and leader of warriors. "A leader both Briton and Roman. And yet you chose your allegiance to Rome. To those who take what does not belong to them. That same Rome that took your men from their homeland—" she knew she was accusing him of something he felt strongly about. She wanted to see his reaction to her needling. To see if he had made peace with his allegiance._

_"Listen, lady," he interrupted. "Do not pretend you know anything about me or my men."_

_She refused to be side-tracked. She wanted him to focus on what was important. "How many Britons have you killed?"_

_"As many as tried to kill me. It's the natural state of any man to want to live." He argued, as if this was some discussion on societal laws and customs._

_"Animals live!" she retorted. "It's a natural state of any man to want to live free in their own country." There was a pause as she watched her words sink in. She knew this idea of freedom was important to him._

_"I belong to this land," she said with conviction. She had a home that she would fight for, and he could have the same._

_If only he would see it. Would he fight for it?_

_"Where do you belong, Arthur?" She asked softly._

_He gave nothing away, but the silence told her she had scored a hit, however light. "_

_How's your hand?" he asked finally._

_She couldn't help the smile that crept into her voice. "I'll live, I promise you," the silence threatened to draw out long enough to destroy their connection. She dragged up more of Merlin's information about this man's life._

_"Is there nothing about my land that appeals to your heart?" she said with wonder in her voice. "Your own father married a Briton. Even he must have found something to his liking."_

* * *

She was given the opportunity to bathe and changed into a borrowed Roman dress and cloak. She felt like a new woman as she walked through the camp and chanced upon the knight who had called her home his hell. She had liked him chiefly because he didn't like her.

He saw she was a deadweight, likely to allow the army of Saxons on their heels to catch up with them. She had heard as much, but did not mind it. When she had chanced upon him that second time, he had spoken of his home, a great sea of land. She felt something in herself respond to these words, and did not mind that he would have left her and the boy Lucan to die. She had accepted her inevitable death. She had been half way to it. What did it matter to her if she had gone into the eternal sea sooner or later? She had no fear of death and neither did this lonely, angry man from the other side of the world. He was cynical, yet passionate despite professing to be heartless and insincere in all matters but his rage.

He would bear watching, even if he was not the target.

She heard a particular owl call, that was not from any natural bird. In fact, it was one of Merlin's signals, calling her to its source. Merlin had been watching them this entire time, and understood what she was doing. She led Arthur to Merlin and negotiated a possible alliance between them, before going back with Arthur, rushing to the sounds of trouble.

She was just in time to slay her tormentor who had been trying to take control of the caravan.

That had felt good indeed, despite Lancelot's sarcasm.

* * *

They nearly lost Dagonet when he broke the ice's hold on the lake. He was so terribly injured that they thought they would lose him. Now he took her place in the wagon and she attended to him with the kind Roman lady. But he had lived to reach the fort and the surgeons there, who managed to save his life.

She had gone to Arthur that night in an attempt to seduce him, only to be interrupted. Thwarted but undeterred, she had been pleased to witness Arthur's resolution to fight the Saxons rather than run to Rome.

And Lancelot had looked at her with eyes as dark and stormy as her own. He knew what she was doing, but said nothing to Arthur. She knew he hated her in that instant.

* * *

_"What have you done?" Lancelot hissed at her as she prepared to leave to take the news and battle plans to Merlin._

_"Given him a home and a cause to fight for," she replied. "He was lost after the news of his mentor in Rome. I gave him purpose again."_

_"He will die," he growled. Like fire, she thought. He's just like a fire, blazing fierce._

_"He will live and triumph," she assured him._

_"This is suicide and you have handed him the sword to fall upon!" he said._

_"He stays because he knows this is right. Rome has no hold over him, and nor do you," she smiled gently, seeing the rage in his face. "He has made his choice. I would respect it, if I were you."_

* * *

It felt good to be back amongst her own kind after so long. She had shucked the dress and cloak for buckskin trousers and ancestral war-paint. She sent a message to Leodegrance that his daughter and heir was indeed alive and about to go to into battle.

Even if he did object, he would be too late to stop her.

She delighted in war, feeling the sea rise in her once more, great waves of power tirelessly driving her through her foe. She made a mistake, however, in going head-to-head with a shaven-headed Saxon she recognised from the frozen lake. As she expected the fatal blow, she was amazed to see Lancelot—of all people—step in.

Maybe there was something to those tales of selflessness after all.

Together they managed to kill the Saxon, though Lancelot was horribly wounded. She spent the rest of the battle protecting him, often standing astride him, holding one of his swords in her hands and screaming her challenge at all who dare approach her.

When the battle was over and Arthur and the other knights converged on their position, they found her with her hair unbound, staunching his wounds with her long ebony curls while he roundly cursed her and all her 'hell-born ancestors'.

Yet there was an amused gleam in his eyes as he stared at her near-bare chest and the shocked looks on the other men's faces.

Lancelot had been borne away to the fort to be laid alongside Dagonet and Tristan. Gawain and Bors also had serious injuries, but the knights looked upon her with dawning respect as she roughly tied back her knee-length gore-drenched tresses, and set to work helping see to the wounded.

She washed and sewed and comforted, unmindful of her unladylike clothes or the fact she had barely slept the past two days. There were too many wounded who could not be moved further than the fort.

* * *

_Two days' later, there came a shout from the sentries. "Banners! Banners from the east!"_

_Horns were sounded, singing through the air._

_"It is a great force of Celts from the north!"_

_She had been catching a few moments' rest when she heard the horns and she knew what they heralded. She had managed to wash the blood from her hair and skin, but had stubbornly remained in borrowed trousers and a tunic, much to Arthur's amusement._

_Without waiting, she ran to the door of the field hospital and watched, horror-struck as King Leodegrance—her father—rode into the Fort atop a fine horse. His dark eyes flashed as he looked around, his face stern._

_Arthur approached him, looking tall and strong and magnificent. They exchanged words and then both men turned their heads to look at her in the doorway._

_Too late to hide now. She walked over to the two men and laid a hand on the horse's flank, staring up at her father, who blinked down at her in surprise._

_"Daughter," he said gruffly. "You will come with me," he said, it didn't even have to be an order._

_She felt the summer sea wash through her, into his driftwood heart, and she smiled. "Of course, my lord," she said._

_Arthur stared at her, seeing the role of a stately lady that she wore as comfortably as the faces of a warrior and a diplomatic conduit between Arthur and Merlin's forces._

_She was all, and yet she was none of these things._

_Ultimately, she was like of the sea. Many surfaces, but always deep with currents and power._

_Unfathomable, unmeasurable._

_Endless._

* * *

Leodegrance had brought reinforcements to bolster Arthur's struggling forces. The remaining Saxons sued for peace and were escorted back to their boats. He had also brought her a trunk of clothes and a tire-woman to help dress her hair and attend her needs.

It was insulting, but it was her due. She bore the attention with perfect calm, emulating her sister without sincerity. It felt like a ritual of remembrance as she dutifully accompanied her father to meet the knights. They had seen her in a dress before, but her sudden stateliness, the fine gold torc around her throat proclaiming her high-born status. She smiled at them and spoke softly when directly addressed, but otherwise remained aloof.

Lancelot finally approached her, he was now on his feet, even if he would not be on active duty for over a month.

_"You are different, lady," he said softly, joining her as she stood on the northern battlements. Her woman stood a respectful distance away, out of earshot. Chaperone, but not spy. "I think Arthur prefers this side of you."_

_She didn't look at him, but smiled. "It is a more familiar type of woman to him." She gripped the stone tightly, wishing for the sea._

_"But what is true?" Always direct, just like a fire indeed._

_"Whatever needs to be true," she said calmly._

_He snorted in disgust. "Just like a Roman, after all," he spat._

_She whirled on him, skirts billowing and long braids lashing at her sides. "I am a woman," she said, her voice deadly for all its quietness. "Surviving in a world forged by men for men's needs. I cannot shout and swing a sword to get my way."_

_He paused at her words, then, clearly struggling, he asked: "Do you love him?" His voice barely a whisper._

_And she had only smiled, stepping away from him, hearing her sister's words in her ears over the gently rushing waves in her soul._

_"I have a feeling I shall," she said and watched his eyes blaze._

* * *

She had gone back to Cameliard with Leodegrance and his personal retinue. She could feel Lancelot's burning eyes warming her sea-cold skin, yet it was Arthur who she allowed to kiss her knuckles when they took their leave.

Leodegrance approved of this, and she saw a gleam in his eyes that then shifted away from her as she stared at him for a long, long moment.

She did not speak for the rest of the journey, except to answer gently and without commitment in response to Leodegrance's encomiums of Arthur. She already knew what he had planned, and she did not mind his meddling. It matched her own ends. Not that he knew it.

She had absentmindedly hugged her mother and absolutely refused to speak of what had happened to her between that disastrous hunting trip and her return to the sea.

For the next month she walked or rode along the shore every day. She would wade into waves and stand with her arms outstretched, glorying in the sea and thanking its unnameable gods for her victory.

And on one such day, a messenger was sent from Arthur's fort. She was summoned from her communion on the shore and stood by her father's throne, watching as the messengers handed over letters from Arthur with the message that the half-Briton was moving his forces and those people who wished to follow him to his estates inherited from his deceased parents. A place called Camelot.

She heard the name and felt its power.

Leodegrance was gracious and invited the messengers to rest a while at his court, then in private seethed at the insult of having two commoners deliver such important correspondence. He felt it an insult from a mere warlord, however noble or mighty.

Her mother gently reminded him that the knights were all sorely wounded and unable to make such a long journey yet. Moreover, if Arthur were contacting him, then it meant he wished to foster good relations with the kings and lords of neighbouring territories. This pacified him somewhat and they all went to dinner in tolerable equanimity.

* * *

_She was walking on the shore, watching the storm that raged out at sea. All that had reached the shore thus far was the strong wind that lifted the hem of her skirts—her hair being braided and bound into a beaded net._

_Then she heard hooves hissing along the sand behind her. She looked over her shoulder and saw a familiar black horse bearing a familiar dark knight to her. He wore only light armour, but both swords were strapped to his back._

_"Milady of Cameliard," he said stiffly, not dismounting as would be customary, but looking down at her. "You are expected up at the castle."_

_"It is good to see you too, Lancelot," she said._

_"If you would attend to the summons, I really think—"_

_"Why have you been sent here?" she asked instead, playing for time and enjoying her harmless teasing him. "Are we expecting trouble?"_

_"None, milady, but there is the matter of—"_

_She cut him off again. "Then I think you may tell me why you are here. Be honest now, we have always been honest with each other, sir knight."_

_He glared at her, and she felt the flames of infuriated male will turned away by the waves. Finally he sighed and jumped down from his horse, still towering over her. "I was sent as envoy and escort," he said through gritted teeth._

_"For me," she finished._

_He nodded once, jerkily, and turned to stare at the sea._

_"My father will welcome the alliance. Your leader needs to enter noble circles to retain his legitimacy, after all. Through me, he will be a prince."_

_Lancelot's jaw clenched, but she went on, enjoying giving voice to the unfurling future. Like a bolt of fine cloth being flung out across a table._

_A Round Table._

_"… Yes, and then hailed king upon our wedding day. Will you be there to wish me happy?"_

_Lancelot growled wordlessly, and turned away, dragging his faithful charger with him. "Come on," he called over his shoulder._

_She caught up with him easily._

_"You… you said you would love him. Do you feel for him at all?"_

_"What do any of us feel for great men? He saved me when you would not. Yet you saved me when he did not even know of my peril. What does that mean to you?"_

_"It seemed wrong for you to die so poorly," he said, looking ready to say more before sighing and shaking his head._

_"And Arthur?"_

_"He is my friend."_

_"But will he be your king?"_

* * *

Lancelot had ridden north with a company of Celts who had been from Merlin's war bands, but now had sworn an oath of non-aggression with Arthur. It was enough for Merlin and Arthur to nominally combine their forces.

Lancelot did not stay long, nor did they have an opportunity to speak privately after that singular encounter on the beach. He left for Camelot.

And he took her with him. Along with her dowry, her escort and her parents.

* * *

The wedding was by the sea, she wore a pale green dress with flowers in her hair. Arthur looked ecstatic. Their kiss was passionate enough to convince the guests, but she felt no love for Arthur. Only a deep sort of affection; a mixture of loyalty, adoration and feminine tolerance for his manly enthusiasm.

Caradoc had also sworn allegiance with Arthur, and so he stood in attendance with his wife.

Her sister.

Her sister looked so happy, tears rolling down her rosy cheeks as she hugged her little daughter and son to her sides.

She felt nothing but triumph as she and Arthur raised Excalibur over their heads, and smiled when she saw the knights and Celts all draw their swords to return the salute. She caught Lancelot's kindling gaze and let her smile deepen.

She had her champion.

She had her king.

* * *

Camelot was in-land, and she missed the sea. The fortress castle, with its fine keep and strong walls was certainly impressive.

Arthur's new kingdom encompassed a large portion of the north of Britain, and his lands bordered with Wales as well as Caradoc's, Merlin's and Leodegrance's territories in the north.

She was happy, she was allowed to do almost everything she wanted, but still dedicated the majority of her time to maintain her image of a beautiful, serene queen. Arthur would fight the skirmishes of Saxon raiders and Briton lords and kings who wanted to test their strength. She would sit in court and see to the administration of the state. She would sit and hear law cases, appeals and accusations. At least two knights always stayed in Camelot with her, although they rotated on the duty.

However she liked it best when Lancelot was there. He alone would shoot her discreet but potent looks loaded with sarcasm, dislike or scorn. And she would smile sweetly and ask him most politely to speak his mind. He would scowl and shake his head.

These little power games never escalated, but she enjoyed them nonetheless. Her relationship with the other knights was courteous and friendly, some moreso than others. Arthur liked her ability to befriend—however formally—everyone at the court. She made it her business to have no clear foes whatsoever. Even Arthur's enemies remarked on her cool, yet perfectly formal manner during negotiations.

She would occasionally ride into battle, the sea raging in her veins and lifting her up on waves of inhuman energy. When Arthur found her in the aftermath, he would sigh in despair and wrap her in his cloak, dragging her back to his tent.

And the knights looked on in amusement and admiration. They liked her bellicose episodes.

* * *

She did not know when the cracks started to show, precisely. Arthur was good to her, always kind and gentle, attentive and sensitive to her moods and whims. He let her do anything she wanted, go anywhere she liked.

In short, he was the perfect husband.

But perhaps it had something to do with the fact that there would be no children. Something told her that they were both too powerful, too different to create new life. It would be like birthing the sun.

So she was sad that they worked better as friends and allies than husband and wife. She no longer laughed as she danced. She would spend more time reading or sitting on a council, away from Arthur. She hated to see the pain in his eyes as he smiled at her. 

* * *

_It was, predictably, Lancelot who finally tackled her on the estrangement. He burst into her chambers while she sat before her fire with some reports and letters of state._

_"Why, good evening my friend," she said quietly, setting down the letter she had been reading, and sitting up a little straighter in her chair. "What—?"_

_"No, this time you listen to me, queen," he snarled the last word sarcastically. "He won't say anything, so we shall speak honestly, you and I, madam, until I know." He had not stopped walking while he spoke, and by the time he had finished, he was jabbing a finger into her face. His eyes were blazing with that foreign fire._

_Heat flared against her skin, and she felt the sea in her answer it._

_"Very well," she said calmly. "I do not know precisely how it happened. We just do not love each other in that meaningful way we should. We love each other as the dearest of friends, and nothing more."_

_"You said you could love him," he said, turning away to look in the fire. Cleaving to his elemental force. The accusation was heavy and angry and scorching._

_"And I do!" she said, feeling a dark wave push her up and out of her chair. "I love him the way you and all the other knights, the way everyone loves him!" she trembled as the currents swirled, a vortex of emotion in her core, spiralling out._

_He was looking at her now, surprised and blank._

_"He is… perfect. You know it, I know it, everyone knows it and that is why we love him. He may be a mortal man, but he is imbued with something more."_

_"And you're not?" Lancelot shot back. "I see the masks you wear, the roles you shift between. I know Arthur sees it too. You… you're like…" he broke off and shook his head, turning away._

_"It is hard," she said through a clenched jaw. "Harder than you could possibly imagine to love that man the way he wants to be loved. And I—as you so rightly say—am not the woman to do it. We use each other, but we cannot love each other."_

_"He does not use you," Lancelot said, but he sounded unsure of himself._

_"Please," she scoffed. "Without me, he would not be king. Without him, I would be ruling in Cameliard through my parents, who have mere mortal blood in their veins and no conviction."_

_"What is in your veins then?" he challenged._

_"You know," she hissed back. "You know damn well."_

* * *

After that, Lancelot insisted that she sit down and talk to Arthur. It was far less painful than she had imagined it would be. The king had already figured it out, but had refused to lay a shred of blame at her feet.

She had exchanged a disbelieving look with Lancelot, but they both could only see honesty and concern in his eyes. Concern for her. Because while he could discreetly take any woman to bed, a queen's virtue had to be irreproachable.

Of course the other knights found out. How, she would never know, because Lancelot swore up and down that he had not said a word, so maybe they had noticed it too.

They all covered for her and Arthur, until, amazingly enough, it was Bors who gave them the perfect solution.

_"Why don't you just go back where you came from? We need someone who can actually understand the gibberish your lot spout when they think we're not paying attention." He huffed. "Diplomatic relations my arse," he added grumpily._

Within two weeks, she was riding to Cameliard to live as envoy of her husband and heir to Leodegrance. Although who knew how long that old man would hang on. He seemed to accept, however tacitly, that his wife and daughter were really in charge. It freed him up to go hunting as often as he liked.

* * *

Lancelot visited, personally carrying letters from Arthur that were full of an unnameable, fervent love and concern.

_'… I miss you, I feel your presence like an old wound. I do not notice the pain until I move a certain way and then I feel it tenfold. I hope you are still able to withstand the terrible weather, although it is awful everywhere. Thus, you will understand my reasons for keeping Gawain from any long expeditions for the season. That man throws out the strangest physical reactions to heavy rain…'_

_She laughed and read it aloud to Lancelot, who had smirked, his eyes kindling with the shared humour._

_'… I understand why you needed to go away. We both need to settle into ourselves. Our souls are strange and mighty, are they not? But I pray for your safety and happiness nightly. I hope you think of me. I am reminded of Persephone and Demeter, do you remember that old pagan myth? Spring will return with you, and I look forward to showering you with wildflowers and forcing you to laugh at my pratting around in the orchards as the blossoms sag heavily on the branches…'_

_Painful, intimate little reminiscences that Lancelot would not know. Arthur was her friend, her king. She would not injure his dignity by laughing about such things, even if it was with his best friend, her champion._

_Then came the final revelation. She cast anguished eyes to him, and saw he was watching her very carefully._

_She had managed to expel a single, choked sob and then fled to the sea._

_It did not comfort her._

_"Madam," he said, having caught up with her, breathless and discomposed. What a nightmare she must look herself, her hair loose and wild with salt and wind. "What…?" he trailed off, unable to withstand whatever was in her eyes._

_She no longer knew. The sea was discordant in her, like two currents converging and creating whirlpools, pulling her down. And for once, she felt like she was drowning._

_"Do you know what he said?" she said, managing to get the words out steadily. "What he wrote in that letter?"_

_He sighed and raked a hand through his hair. "Milady…"_

_"Don't!" she cried. "Do not…!" she swallowed._

_"I don't understand," he growled, hands clenching white-knuckled at his sides. He would not step nearer. She felt the fire, banked and flickering, as if caught in a high gale._

_"If you read his final words in that letter… if you knew…"_

_Because she had finally understood._

_Arthur was the wind. As changeable and as inexorable as he was gentle. Born from the sky, never resting, never ceasing._

_The wind would whip up waves, but was unable to change the sea's true currents. The wind that at once endangered and fed the fire._

_He was everywhere. He was from heaven and made every place his home. He brought them together, and gods save them, but they needed him._

_She took a single faltering step towards Lancelot and then paused, feeling a wave wash against the back of her legs as she hesitated. The sea urged her up the beach, to the heat._

_To the fire that raged in him._

_"What did he say?" Lancelot asked as she walked up the wet sand, her skirts heavy with salt._

_She didn't look at him, but edged closer, suddenly shy in the silliest way. Like a blushing maiden in summertime._

_"Milady—"_

_That did it._

_"Don't!" she snapped, suddenly bold. She reached out and gripped his collar, as if she were about to hit him. "Say my name," she said._

_She might as well have struck him from the look on his face. "I…"_

_"Say it," she hissed, stepping closer, her ice-cold fingers the only thing connecting them across this gulf of fear and loneliness. This was betrayal, but it was not. For how can it be treachery if all are in accord?_

_"The final part of the letter," he murmured, still stiff and unyielding as he wrestled with the idea beginning to form in his mind. "I never saw it. Even when he told me I might ask. I think he wanted me to ask."_

_"He knows us better than we know ourselves," she said, tempted to scream or cry. Or both._

_The sea was oddly quiet in her now. No longer drowning, but drifting on a new current as deep as any she had ever known._

_Scorched as she was by the flames, the strange current felt good, soothing her as the sea had always done._

_She looked up into his eyes and smirked, mimicking his own favourite expression. "So say my name."_

_He searched her expression for a long time, as if finding something new in the bones of her face that was written in a language he could finally understand._

_Strong arms crushed her to his broad chest and as he dipped his head to hers, he whispered fire along her lips._

_"Guinevere."_

* * *

**Note:**

**There is a popular folk rhyme known in Wales concerning Gwenhwyfar, anglicised as 'Guinevere':**

**_Gwenhwyfar ferch Ogrfan Gawr_ **

**_Drwg yn fechan, gwaeth yn fawr._ **

 

**"Gwenhwyfar, daughter of Ogrfan Gawr,**

**Bad when little, worse when great."**

* * *

**The End.**


End file.
